


Insane

by ThetaSigma



Series: Mad Doc Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John Watson, Established Relationship, John Watson is insane, M/M, Sherlock loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 22:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: Sherlock's kidnapped, and John's plan to get him out is utterly insane.Sherlock finds out why John got the nickname 'Mad Doc Watson' in Afghanistan, too.





	Insane

Sherlock’s been kidnapped. The kidnappers – related to their latest case, naturally – have sent John a taunting text message, Sherlock clearly beaten, tied, and with a gun aimed at him.

There’s no address, but John knows where he’s going. Sherlock’s phone wasn’t taken, and after a _spectacular_ row about Sherlock fitting a GPS chip into John’s phone, one that will work even if the phone is off, Sherlock consented to having one in his too – so long as only John knows about it and knows how to access it (because, well, _Mycroft_ ).

He reluctantly calls Lestrade and informs him Sherlock’s been taken, and even gives the where. _“It’ll be at least an hour, we have to get the Firearms Unit,”_ Lestrade says apologetically.

Fuck that shit. John’s not waiting around for the police to be _ready_ to rescue Sherlock. He’ll do it his goddamn self, then.

John slides his gun into his waistband, dresses in dark blue to be able to hide in shadows, and sheathes a combat knife in his boot. This isn’t the first time he’s going into hostile territory.

He takes a cab to the end of the road, gets out, pays, and surveys the house from a distance. Lights on everywhere, shadows in front of the windows. At least ten of them.

John’s lips quirk upward in a smirk. Easy. 

He approaches the house nonchalantly, looking for all the world like a pedestrian ambling around. It’s only as he approaches the gate that he drops into a crouch and wriggles in, low to the ground, minimizing his chances of getting shot.

Doors are expected. Windows, somewhat.

 _Skylights_ , fuck no.

There’s sturdy ivy on the walls, but John was perfectly prepared to scale the damn house without it. It does make it easier, though, and he’s up within ten minutes, barely having broken a sweat.

He tests the skylight and grins. Idiots didn’t even _lock_ it. He levers it open carefully and drops into the room, dropping into a crouch right away. He listens carefully. No one’s running towards him. Element of surprise is still his.

He creeps out of the room, making sure the balls of his feet take most of his weight – quieter that way, he’s practically silent as he goes into the next room. There’s a man by the window, gun in his hand, and John pulls his. “Drop it,” John says pleasantly. The man’s holding the gun wrong, and John’s confidence grows. Damn idiots don’t even know how to handle their weapons.

He knows this is _insane_ , utterly, but there’s goddamn nothing about to stop him now. Adrenaline rushes through him and he’s repressing his grin at how fucking _alive_ he feels.

The man fumbles with the gun and aims it at John. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John grumbles, letting his gun fall. He doesn’t want to shoot yet – the noise will bring the others running. He steps quickly into the man’s space, grabs the stock of the gun, and wrenches it from his hand before the man can react.

He swings it into the man’s temple and watches as the man goes down, hard.

He pulls zipties out of his pocket and ties the man up, then conscientiously places him in the recovery position. No need for the idiot to choke on his vomit, if John managed to concuss him badly. This isn’t a warzone, he does actually need to keep casualties to a minimum.

He hefts the man’s gun and grins. Shooting them with _their_ weapons – well, a lot fewer questions that way.

He puts his away, keeps the idiot’s gun at the ready, and sneaks down the hallway. The rooms he checks on this level are all empty, and he creeps down the stairs, keeping his weight to the extreme outside of each step. 

The first room he finds down here has four men, none of them with guns in hand, laughing and drinking. 

John slips into the room, cracks one across the back of his head, and drives his elbow sharply into the gut of the man coming to stop him. The first man is down, bleeding from the gun, and the second one is on the floor, wheezing. 

“Now,” John says. “Tell me where Sherlock Holmes is, and I _might_ let you all live.”

The wheezing man gasps out, “Don’t tell him! He’s bluffing!”

John points the gun at him and raises an eyebrow. “Am I?” he asks icily. “Would you like to test that?”

The man manages to catch his breath and laughs. “You’re Holmes’ little blogging hanger-on. Some _GP_. You won’t shoot.”

John grins manically. “Do your research. I was a _commando_ before I was a GP. You’re looking at a fucking _soldier_ right now, you goddamn piece of shit. Where is Sherlock?”

The man takes too long to answer, and John calmly shoots him in the thigh. “Be grateful,” John snarls. “I deliberately missed your femoral artery. Where. Is. My. _Husband_?”

The man’s screaming too loudly to answer. John sighs, zipties his hands, and points his gun at the two men cowering in the corner. He hears loud footsteps – the others, brought by the sound of the gunshot. “Do answer quickly,” John says to the cowering fools. “It’ll be far more pleasant that way.”

“Basement!” one of them squeaks out. “We locked him in the basement!”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He moves quickly, trussing them up so they can’t participate in the fight he knows is upcoming, and turns to face the arriving contingent.

“You’re later than you should be,” John says, aiming at the five or six men crowding into the room. “I’ve been in the house seven minutes now.”

“How did you get in?” a man in the back asks. Ah, the leader, then. “We had the doors covered and the windows alarmed.”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out eventually.” 

The leader gives a sharp nod at one of the men, who aims at John and pulls the trigger. The bullet embeds itself in the wall, having missed John entirely. 

“Sherlock was right about you,” John says disgustedly. “Not worth his time.”

He moves lightning-quick, slams the weapon out of the hand of the idiot who fired it, and brings his other hand into play, cleanly dislocating the man’s shoulder. The man tumbles to the ground, howling, and John is more than a little disappointed at how pathetic they are all. Last time he was forced to dislocate a shoulder, the guy had kept fighting him. Mycroft was right, he _does_ miss the war.

The next idiot manages to get the gun from John, but then has no idea what he should do with it. Before he can aim at John, John yanks his knife out of its sheath and plunges it into a nearby thigh. 

Not five minutes pass before he’s subdued all but the leader, who is now desperately running for the door.

John yanks his knife out of whatever muscle he’d just thrust it into it, hefts its weight in his hand, then lets it fly. It thuds into the door a millimetre from the leader’s hand.

The smell of urine is suddenly very, very present. John doesn’t have to look to know there’s a puddle under the man, and he stalks closer, pulling the man’s arms behind him and tying them together. He kicks the man’s legs, and the leader tumbles to the ground, his cheek coming to rest in the stream of urine.

John takes his knife back and heads for the basement. As he storms down the steps to the ground floor, he glances at his watch. Minimum of 17 minutes before Lestrade and Co show up.

The door is locked, and John doesn’t feel like fucking around, looking for a key. He stands to one side of the door and kicks, _hard_ , backwards, feeling the door shudder under the force. He kicks again, and the door flies open.

He runs down the steps to the basement and pulls out a torch. He plays the light around the room, looking for a light switch or Sherlock. He finds the switch, flips it on, and stows the torch away. “Sherlock?” he calls.

“Next room!”

John enters the next room and sighs as he takes in Sherlock. Bloodied, bruised, bound… typical Friday night for them, really. He slices the ropes away from Sherlock’s wrists and ankles, then looks him over critically.

“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock asks as John checks him over.

“Not here yet. Told me at _least_ an hour, like I was going to wait _that_ long.”

Sherlock gapes at him. “You… John, there were _ten_ of them!”

“And all ten are upstairs with various injuries right now,” John confirms.

“You took on _ten men_ alone?” Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “This isn’t your first time taking a house by yourself with nothing but a handgun.”

“Be fair, I _did_ have a combat knife with me, too. And the last time, the people firing at me actually could aim. Sherlock, this whole outfit was _pathetic_.”

“How did you get in? They were guarding the doors.”

John raises an eyebrow and waits for Sherlock to work it out. 

“You _didn’t_ ,” Sherlock breathes. “You _did_. You _scaled the house_ and came in through the _roof_.” Sherlock throws his head back and laughs. “John Watson, you are _insane_. You’re not allowed to criticise any of my plans from now on.” He sounds utterly delighted.

“Hey, my plan actually _worked_. I’m not even _injured_ , unlike, you know, last time.”

“Was that how the shoulder wound happened?”

“What? No, that I got… never mind. No, that’s the time I took a knife to my calf – you’ve seen the scar.”

“I have to hear the story about your shoulder, if it’s as insane as the one about your calf wound.” Sherlock stands and tries not to fall back down. 

“After the hospital,” John says agreeably.

There are steps thundering down the stairs, and John reaches for his gun. Sherlock places a hand on John’s arm to stop him. “Lestrade and Donovan,” he says. 

Lestrade looks around the room and sighs. “John, I didn’t mean for you to go off half-cocked on your own!” he berates.

John raises an eyebrow. “And I’m guessing your plan was to march through the front door and hope no one shot a cop. I got Sherlock, there are no casualties… lot of injuries, though,” he adds with a shrug. “And none of them mine.”

Lestrade gapes at John, who gives a self-deprecating smile. “Greg, I was in an active warzone for years. This was child’s play.”

Sherlock grins in delight. “ _This_ is why Murray called you ‘Mad Doc Watson’, isn’t it?”

“No, no, that moniker I got after a firefight in Kandahar,” John answers. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it in the ambulance.”

Lestrade stares after them as John helps Sherlock up the stairs. He feels like he should say _something_ , but no words come to him. It’s not a side of John he’s seen yet – up until now, John’s been a quiet, unassuming man, with a wry sense of humour and an ability to handle Sherlock, but Lestrade suddenly sees clearly just _why_ Sherlock’s so taken with him.

He hears Sherlock’s laughter floating down the stairs, and makes a mental note to ask John – Mad Doc Watson, apparently – about these stories next pub night. Anything except how poorly his team’s been doing lately.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is now translated into Russian! [Find it here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6615329). Many thanks to [Helen_Rush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen_Rush/pseuds/Helen_Rush) for translating this work!


End file.
